The Five Step Plan

by Elizabeth Welsford

  They stood in place, thoughtfully staring down at the table whilst holding their lancets like two revelers contemplating the Christmas goose. After a moment, it was Dr. Whitcraft who said, “Let’s carve into this bugger, then shall we?”

  “After you, sir.”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. After you.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Dr. Marplot ducked toward the table and skillfully began a most thorough dissection. “Where is it? The house I mean.”

  “I’ve gotten rather lucky. It’s just a few doors down from where her father lives.”

  “Is it now? In St. James Square? I’m very familiar with that area, but oh, it is expensive.”

  “It certainly is. You know, Dr. Marplot, I must say that this has been a real treat. I spend so much time at The London Hospital, I barely ever come here, and I surely never dreamed I would get a crack at cutting off a man’s leg. How delightful!”

  “After our article comes out, you’ll be up to your elbows in hysterical women. Even more than you are now, that is. Likely no more amputations for you.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Well, you can’t have everything.”

  ****

  Dr. Marplot cast the tails of his morning coat aside with a dramatic sweep of his hand and sat down in front of the pianoforte. “What would anyone like to hear?”

  “Oh my! Mozart? Do you know any Mozart?” a female guest inquired.

  A coy smile spread across his face and he arched his brow. “Do I?” With that, he straightened into the upright posture of a concert musician, picked up his hands, held them loose over the ivory keys and proceeded to fill the parlor with the richest, most lush version of Mozart’s A Major Sonata that Dr. Whitcraft had ever heard. The women swooned, and guests mingling in the other rooms came rushing in to see which of the party guests had proven to be so talented.

  Mrs. Anile, however, made her way through the revelers in the opposite direction, sliding against the parlor wall toward the exit whilst monitoring the splashing drinks in each hand.

  Dr. Vorago appeared and patted Dr. Whitcraft on the shoulder. The two watched the impromptu recital in awe.

  “No sheet music, can you believe it?” Dr. Vorago whispered. “Marplot’s got the whole business committed to memory.”

  “It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

  “Quite.”

  Miss Reave stood across the room, tucked in amongst a group of admiring ladies, all captivated by the extraordinary performance at hand.

  Dr. Marplot had chosen a selection from the second movement and was having a heyday with the piece’s interpretation, playing it at varying speeds and in a swirling sort of manner. He would offer the crowd a placid smile as his fingers bounced along the keys, his mane feathering in time with the beats. But on the very next phrase, his fervor would slow and his fingers would droop and brood over the notes. His face would darken in kind, tormented by artistic malaise. Everyone was completely captivated.

  Weeks ago, Dr. Whitcraft would have found such a display from this man to be outrageously over the top, and frankly, it was difficult not to do so now. But after working so closely with him regarding the article and just days ago in the surgery, he felt ashamed that he had let himself be led astray by such base feelings. The man was a gifted artist. What was wrong with entertaining friends and colleagues on an occasion like this?

  When he began Alla Turca, the sonata’s final movement, Dr. Marplot manipulated the keys with such speed and dexterity that he had the entire crowd perched on their toes in silent suspense. He played faster and faster still. The crowd gasped and clutched at one another when he leapt to his feet, toppling the bench as he barreled on toward the finish. After a series of flourishes, and one final pound of the pianoforte, the man’s arms lifted away from the keys and cut through the air. He exhaled in exhaustion, doubling over the instrument as if he could barely stand.

  Everyone erupted in ecstatic applause.

  Dr. Vorago wailed and slapped Dr. Whitcraft on the back. Dr. Whitcraft clapped too, sidling through the crowd toward the enraptured Miss Reave.

  “Oh did you see him? Did you see?” she gushed.

  “Yes. Indeed. It was marvelous. Uh, darling, I hate to say it, but we should be going, I have a full schedule of patients tomorrow and I simply can’t—”

  “What? Oh no! No, he’s just finished playing and I haven’t had a chance to speak to even half of my friends yet. Oh you’re such a spoilsport!” She flicked the stylish little bag hanging from her wrist and struck Dr. Whitcraft squarely in the lower arm.

  “Ouch! Good Lord, what do you have in there? I’m nearly injured!” He rubbed his arm.

  Miss Reave appeared stricken, blinking as she steadied her swinging bag. “It’s nothing. Just a few—”

  “Did I hear right?” Dr. Marplot appeared, breathing heavily. He inserted himself between Dr. Whitcraft and Miss Reave. “You have to leave so soon?”

  “What a wonderful performance, dear sir. You are a gifted musician,” Dr. Whitcraft said.

  “Oh no, I’m so out of practice.” He dabbed at his dry forehead with a handkerchief.

  Dr. Whitcraft patted him on the shoulder. “I have such a busy schedule tomorrow, I hate to leave, but we must.”

  “Oh, well of course you do, but wait here a moment. I’ve got something you need to see, before you go.” He disappeared from the room and hurried back with his hand buried in a satchel. He produced a folded packet of papers and tossed it at Dr. Whitcraft with a bemused smirk. “There it is, old man. I’ll need your final approval before I give it to the editor.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Whitcraft brightened at once. He straightened his glasses and flipped over the cover page.

  Dr. Marplot turned to Miss Reave. “I think it is brilliant, just brilliant. The kind of thing that can really propel one into fame. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it caught the fancy of The Royal Society.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” she said, glancing from man to man.

  Dr. Whitcraft looked up, his eyes sparkling. Being inducted into the Royal Society was a dream for any English scientist, a possibility he never dared to imagine. He continued reading, relieved to see that the majority of the paper was still exactly how he’d written it. There were additions now and again, but they only enhanced the paper’s merits.

  Their combined efforts, taken as a whole, were truly startling—an excessively clear pedagogical analysis of the maneuver, an elegant diagnostic paradigm, along with a simple, straight-forward explanation of the five steps, usable for any doctor, anywhere in the world.

  He finished reading and looked up into Dr. Marplot’s smiling face. “Well? What did I tell you? Do I have your blessing for them to print it?”

  He couldn’t conceal the grin beginning at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it is ready. I would ask that my name be listed first, of course.”

  “Why of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way!”

  “When do you think it will come out?”

  “Who knows with these things? A few weeks…a month. It depends on the other material the editors have.”

  Satisfied, Dr. Whitcraft turned to Miss Reave. “Well, then, my dear. We do have to go…”

  She turned her bottom lip under and glared at Dr. Whitcraft before glancing apologetically at Dr. Marplot.

  “I tell you what.” Dr. Marplot arched a brow as if he were hatching a plan. “I’ll be here for at least another hour. Why don’t I see to it that Miss Reave and Mrs. Anile get home safely? If that would be acceptable to Miss Reave, of course.”

  Her dismal expression reanimated at once. “Oh, yes! Yes, that would be perfect. I hate to leave a dinner party so early. Are you sure you don’t mind, Dr. Marplot?”

  “Of course not.” He bowed as if he were her manservant. “You’re just a few streets away, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, she is.” Dr. Whitcraft said, his tone more grave than he meant it to be. As he considered the two of them colludi
ng together, he studied their faces, attempting to detect if anything untoward were being betrayed by either of them. There was nothing, of course, and he immediately felt ashamed for thinking such a thing.

  “Are you sure, Dr. Marplot? Escorting Mrs. Anile can get a bit complex…depending upon her willingness and general state, you know.” Dr. Whitcraft turned to Miss Reave. “Where is she, then?”

  At that, all three searched the faces of the crowded party.

  Dr. Vorago wandered over, tapping Dr. Whitcraft on the shoulder. “If you’re talking about Mrs. Anile, she’s trying to find a fourth among the footmen for a game of All-Fours. I was just coming to warn you.”

  “Oh, good Lord.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ll go and stop her.” Miss Reave said. “Darling, I’m certain that Dr. Marplot can handle her. If she’s trying to get a game together, then she’s not all that far gone, so please don’t worry.”

  Dr. Whitcraft sighed, enjoying the way her eyes sparkled as she tried to persuade him. “Well then, I suppose it’s settled. Go and find her, before she gets herself into trouble.” He turned to Dr. Marplot. “Please don’t keep her past ten. Her father will never forgive me if she is out past ten.” He held out his hand.

  Dr. Marplot shook it heartily, and then embraced him. “I’m so glad you are pleased with the paper. I am, too. Most pleased. I just know that your life will never be the same after it is published.”

  Dr. Whitcraft grinned. He hoped so.

  ****

  Dr. Whitcraft rushed around his office, trying to account for every last detail. He clapped his hands together and took a final look around, barely able to contain his excitement. “Miss Faffle, you have the list of my patients, yes? Dr. Scamble should turn up later this morning to collect it. I tried to make satisfactory notes on each of them, just in case. I included basic backgrounds, medical histories and such, so just point that out… “

  “I’ll tell him, sir.” She used her foot to push his large trunk across the battered floor.

  “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure one of the carriage men will get it for me.”

  “Will the weather in Paris be like it is here?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I don’t know, but I believe I’ve packed attire suitable for any condition.” But the question reignited his anxiety. Did he indeed have everything? He glanced at his trunk and wondered.

  Having never left England, he supposed watching the green isle of his birth disappear when they crossed the English Channel would likely be a life-changing experience. But what a wonderful change it should prove to be. The exposure to so much knowledge, to entirely different cultures, and new ways of thinking about medicine, he could only imagine how different his perspective of the world would be when he returned.

  He glanced out the window and saw a large and rather rickety carriage appear up the street, and moments later he could make out the familiar face of Dr. Vorago beaming at him from inside its window. Within moments, the carriage had parked and two young men were lifting his trunk and carting it down the stairs. He watched them go, and his heart raced with anticipation.

  “All right, Miss Faffle. This is it, I suppose.” He took a final account of his office and turned to her.

  Her eyes filled with tears as she clasped her arms around her middle. “Oh, doctor.”

  “It’ll only be a few weeks, Miss Faffle,” he whispered.

  She nodded, blinking her tears away and replacing them with a shy smile.

  “Well then…” He took a long and satisfying breath. With a most satisfied air and erect posture, he swung open his front door, stepped over the threshold, and was at once swept off his feet by a fleeting dark blur which left him crooked and sprawled in the doorway.

  He sat up, blinking at the panels of emerald green silk and black lace. He followed it up, and up further still, past the gaping bodice atop the featureless chest, over the bony angles of the clavicles working like blades in time with the excited respirations of…Mrs. Pannade. With an untamed urgency etched upon her face, she held a rather slim, pointed and peculiarly bejeweled dagger in her right hand.

  Dr. Whitcraft screamed, his eyes fixed upon the weapon, and Miss Faffle’s shriek harmonized in kind, the disturbance causing Dr. Vorago and several other inhabitants of the carriage to begin shouting and blundering about.

  Mrs. Pannade, however, looked around dumbly, baffled by the unexpected reactions from her audience. “Why, Dr. Whitcraft,” she lowered her weapon, “what on earth is the matter?”

  “Stay back, woman!” he shrieked, kicking himself back into his office. “What, will you slay me now?”

  “Slay you? I brought this for you…for your protection!”

  “Mrs. Pannade, God-a-mercy, we have discussed this over and over,” Dr. Vorago bellowed as he lurched up the steps and threw himself over her, disarming his patient quite easily. “I was very specific about you NOT coming here.” He puffed and perspired as he examined the ostentatious dagger in his hands. “What the devil is the meaning of this?”

  Dr. Whitcraft got to his feet, still reeling. “Why on earth would you come here armed?”

  Mrs. Pannade shook herself loose from Dr. Vorago. “To give you some means to defend yourself… from the highwaymen, of course. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Highwaymen?” Dr. Whitcraft said.

  “Yes. They are attacking carriages on all routes out of London. I thought you’d be pleased. My husband bought it last summer when he played Polonius. The actors had to supply their own murder weapons. I thought you might need it.” She put her hands on her hips. “At least someone was thinking about your safety!”

  “You’re mad!” Dr. Vorago said. “Everyone knows Polonius was killed with a sword.”

  “Everyone but my husband,” she added, bitterly.

  Dr. Vorago turned the dagger over his hands. “If these jewels are real, then this thing may be very valuable.” He nudged Dr. Whitcraft. “Don’t these look like rubies?”

  “Oh. Why they’re not real, are they Mrs. Pannade?” Dr. Whitcraft asked as he brushed off his trousers.

  She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know, really. I wouldn’t put it past my husband to spend a small fortune on a prop for the stage.”

  “If they are real, the only thing the highwaymen may actually be interested in is this dagger,” Dr. Vorago said, snorting.

  “Are there actually highwaymen?” Dr. Whitcraft had worried about a storm sinking their paddle-steamer, about the long and difficult conditions on the road, about being accosted in Paris, but he had never thought about being robbed and left for dead by English highwaymen.

  “Well, the fellows in the carriage assured me, they are well prepared. They have drilled for such an unpleasant eventuality, and have a plan.”

  Mrs. Pannade threw herself around Dr. Whitcraft. “Oh, my dear, darling. Promise you’ll come home safe, and please, if nothing else…take at least one meal at A la Petite Chaise. Ask for the poulet roti. I just know you’ll love it! I’m absolutely certain—”

  Dr. Vorago pulled his patient away from Dr. Whitcraft. “Mrs. Pannade, please...”

  Concerned for the citizens of London in their absence, Dr. Whitcraft pulled Dr. Vorago close. “I hope you have arranged for another physician to watch her while we’re gone.”

  “Ah yes.” He nodded. “I’ve arranged for Dr. Marplot to take over.”

  Mrs. Pannade nodded as well, narrowing her eyes. “I will keep an eye on him for you, my dear.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Physicians and scientists from every walk of life had come from all over Europe to attend the conference in Paris, each basking in the excitement of being in the very midst of all modern thought on hysteria.

  The conference proved even more stimulating than Dr. Whitcraft had hoped. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so intellectually exhilarated. He’d barely any time to take in the sights of Paris, as his days were filled running from lecture to lecture, symposium to
symposium, trying to take in as much academic theory as possible.

  Dr. Vorago, on the other hand, had taken his opportunity in Paris to become intimately familiar with the local indulgences, disappearing from the conference after the first day. As far as Dr. Whitcraft could tell, the man only seemed to return to their quarters for an occasional change of clothing or sleepy intermission. The last time Dr. Whitcraft had seen his friend was when he’d discovered the man’s fully dressed and unconscious body slumped in the lavatory, splashed with what appeared to be marchand de vin sauce.

  Feeling like he may have been missing out, Dr. Whitcraft promised himself a break from his academic rigors, if nothing else, to find out what Dr. Vorago had been up to. And he was especially anxious to tell him about the controversy he had witnessed in a standing-room-only lecture hall that afternoon.

  Two illustrious physicians, a Frenchmen and an Italian respectively, had presented their papers on the mysterious origin of hysteria. The majority of attendees still accepted the Frenchman’s perspective, which advocated the age-old belief that hysteria originates from a disturbance of the uterus.

  But the Italian insisted that hysteria was not a disease of the uterus at all, but rather a collection of symptoms somehow located in and controlled by the brain. Of course, it followed from this reasoning that if a uterus was not required to cause hysteria, then men could also be affected and diagnosed with the disease. This particularly iconoclastic section of the Italian physician’s paper had caused a wave of disapproving murmurs among the audience.

  One gentleman became so outraged by this postulation, he stood up and shook his fist at his colleague on stage, letting loose a tirade of what Dr. Whitcraft had presumed to be profanity-laced Italian.

  When others in the audience jumped up to defend the presenter, the man became so infuriated that he picked up his chair and tossed it at the stage before stomping out of the lecture hall. The Italian speaker, watching unimpressed as the man made his exit, speculated to the audience that his accuser likely had hysteria himself, thus accounting for his profoundly inappropriate outburst.